


PainStuck

by narcissisticSpaghetti



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Amputation, Amputee, Analgesia, Anopsia, Anorexia, Anxiety, Bipolar Disorder, Blood, Bulimia, Cannibalism, Claustrophobia, Disorders, Drug Use, Eating Disorders, Graphic Description, Hallucinations, Humanstuck, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Disorder, Multiple Personalities, Murder, Mythomania, OCD, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Painstuck, Physical Disability, Rape/Non-con References, Sadstuck, Schizophrenia, Somatosensory Disorder, Speech Disorders, Strong Language, Swearing, Synesthesia, Transgender, bad trip, clinical lycanthropy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 14:19:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narcissisticSpaghetti/pseuds/narcissisticSpaghetti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a collection of shorts from each of the Beforus and Alternian trolls POV depicting mental disorders and physical disabilities in as much accuracy as I can convey. This is a project started during the 4 month Hiatus of 2013, and it designed to give me something to do while also getting a few feelings and ideas out of my head. There is no shipping or interaction of characters in these fics, aside from very minor and random occurrences. This is also humanstuck because some of the ideas I'm trying to convey I have no idea how to translate to troll and many of them would get them culled at birth.<br/>There is a tumblr blog for this series: http://painstuck.tumblr.com/<br/><em>THERE ARE MANY POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNINGS IN THE FOLLOWING FICS. IF YOU HAVE ANY TRIGGERS OR SENSITIVE TOPICS, PLEASE TAKE A LOOK AT THE LIST ON THE BLOG AND MAKE SURE THAT NOTHING THAT MAY TRIGGER YOU IS THERE BEFORE YOU READ.<em></em></em><br/>I also apologize if any of this sounds weird or off or incorrect etc. This is mostly an exercise and a way to stretch my wings. And this doesn't update very often but when it does it usually gets a little better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aradia

**Author's Note:**

> Dissociative identity disorder (DID), previously known as multiple personality disorder is a mental disorder characterized by at least two distinct and relatively enduring identities or dissociated personality states that alternately control a person's behavior, and is accompanied by memory impairment for important information not explained by ordinary forgetfulness.

My name is Aradia ~~Aliana~~ Megido, I am 15 years old, and there is someone else in my head.

It hurts, and to be plain I don't like it. ~~why should your thoughts matter more than mine?~~

Her name is Aliana ~~Aradia~~ and she is very different ~~we are the same~~ from me. I like red she likes pink ~~I like yellow better~~ , I enjoy reading but she'd rather be singing ~~I like the feeling of the air in my~~ our ~~lungs.~~ I like to dig and look for old things in the ground ~~nerd~~ and she likes to read about princesses and fairies ~~I like witches too~~ , I like getting dirty ~~yuck~~ but she doesn't ~~It's unsanitary~~.

We argue sometimes ~~sometimes?~~ but for the most time it just hurts us both ~~I want out of your stupid head~~ It's our head! We are both here! ~~I want out, let me out~~. I can't. ~~You can~~ , I can't, you know I've tried. ~~You're lying. You keep me here to hurt me~~ You _know_ that's not true! ~~Yes it is~~ No it isn't! ~~Yes it is~~ No! ~~I WANT OUT~~ GO AWAY!

.

.

.

I think she's gone for now. Sometimes I can make her stop, but usually I'm just lost. It actually does get lonely in my head from time to time.

Between you and me, I think of her as a sister, though some of the stuff she does when she takes over are not very sisterly. Also she is very violent at times, and she likes to scare our mother and little brother. Father seems to intimidate us both, but I don't want to get into that.

I do not like it when I wake up to find my brother crying in his room, or in the bathroom with the door locked. I do not like it at all, I love my brother very much. He doesn't trust us anymore, because she likes to pretend she's me and then hurt him.

I am deathly afraid of waking up to find that she hurt them physically in any way. And the scarier part is that she actually might one day.

Having her around also kind of gets in the way of romance, although being 15 I should not be worrying about such things it is still a concern. What if later in life she is still a problem?

She likes to ruin things, spill things, stick gum under the desk at school and run our homework through the shredder. She likes to mouth off to teachers and get me in trouble, and to go to the bathroom for too long and I have to scuttle back to class near the end and get detention. She always skips out on detention, or leaves just before and doesn't come back, so I have to endure the silence on my own.

She likes to flip people off as we walk down the street, and talk to people that I would not want to talk to. She tries to make me angry by breaking my things but I'm not too attached to any of them.

But the most awful thing she's ever done is paint the walls of our bedroom in blood. I woke up to mother screaming, brother asking what was wrong from the hall, and the sharp metallic scent. I had no idea who's it was, or where it came from, but our body was not scarred so it wasn't ours. I have never been more terrified of my sister.

~~Why are you telling them only the bad stuff? I can be nice too.~~

When have you ever been nice, Ali?

~~I have been nice to mother before.~~

You were pretending to be me.

~~I have been nice to your friends before.~~

Only to get something out of them.

~~I have been nice to boys before.~~

You made out with them after a little sweet-talking. That's not being nice. Also I did not appreciate any of them tasting like cigarettes or old melon. They all left awful tastes in our mouth.

~~I like smokers.~~

I do not.

~~Too bad.~~

I do not know why you try and make our life so awful. If we work together we could probably make it great!

~~It's your life, bitch, I'm just a piggy backer. When I do get a chance to live my own life, I will live it to the fullest.~~

You make my time here a living hell.

~~Sucks to be you.~~

Why are you back?

~~I want out.~~

We have been over this, I don't know how.

~~Then go to bed, I can come out when you're asleep. Better yet, let me out.~~

Ali, you can't.

~~Fuck you. I can do this.~~

Please no, not right now!

~~I can do whatever I want in a minute, you just shut your mouth.~~

No!

~~Fuck off.~~

Please, Ali!

~~No, I'm doing this. It's working!~~

No!

~~Yes.~~

No! No! No no no n ~~o no no no no no!~~

YES!

 ~~No, please don't I don't like it when you do this.~~ You go shut your whore mouth and sleep, I want some alone time. ~~I don't like this~~ Neither do I like it when you do this to me, sweetcheeks. Now run along and fade for a while.

I don't want to leave you alone, you're likely to ruin everything again. Like I would ever ruin your life, dear 'sister'. Speaking of, where is that little doll of a boy who lives with us? ~~Leave him alone...~~ But I like to talk to him, leaves him crying tears of joy every time. ~~You hurt him... That is not... okay....~~ He's not my brother, he's yours. I can do whatever I like to him.

~~Leave..... him... alone........ _please....._~~

Finally, some time to myself.


	2. Tavros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paraplegia is an impairment in motor or sensory function of the lower extremities.  
> ~  
> Acataphasia is a disorder in which a lesion to the central nervous system leaves you unable to formulate a statement or to express yourself in an organized manner.

I have been stuck in this chair for three years. I have almost forgotten what it is like to walk. I have long forgotten what grass feels like on my feet, the feeling of sand between my toes, or the thrill of jumping from one structure on the playground to the next, hoping against hope you never touch the burning lava under you.

To be perfectly fair, I didn’t do many of these things very often before the accident, but I still remember loving it when I did. I used to sit in my room and read old books, and I badly regret all of it.

We were just driving, it was a beautiful day and the sun was warm through the front window.

Dad thought it was a wonderful time to call her out of the blue, and she bent down only for a second to get her phone.

Some jerk behind us hit the bumper and spun us off the road, and we made impact only just after she was upright again.

She...

She didn’t make it.

I almost didn’t make it, either.

I was pulled out almost an hour later, and I could not use my limbs. I could not move, not at all.

Use of my arms has come back to me in the three years since, I’m almost 16 now, but it doesn’t change the fact that I will most likely never walk again. It is humbling, to sit here and watch people pass by on their own two feet.

It is angering, to watch them slump and drag their feet, spitting on the good graces of who or whatever gave them the ability to walk. They are wasting themselves away on a gift they take for granted.

“Tavros,”

I’m pretty certain the noise I made in response was the least manly thing I had ever uttered. The nurse paid it no heed.

“Uh, yes m-mom?” I hate the stutter.

“It’s time for your physical therapy.” it’s been three years, why aren’t they done yet?

“Alri-” I try to finish the word but it doesn’t come. I can’t find it on my tongue. Where is it?

She just nods and leaves, as though she understands how frustrating and horrifying it is to lost so many words as I’m trying to speak. I can think just fine, I can write with perfect grammar, but if I try to speak: three out of ten words will never leave my mouth.

I’m told it must be a side effect of the trauma that killed my mother three years ago and took my legs away. I’m told it might have been a coalescing problem that was given a jump start that day. I’m told it might have been my flighty father and often depressed mother, the bad combination I was given for life.

I’m told that my ‘New family’ will help make it better.

They are nice, and they feed me and talk to me, but I do not feel like one of them.

“Tavros honey, the doctor is waiting.”

“... -” I would like to respond, but again I lose the words. I choke up for a moment and cannot think.

The best I can do is nod, and move my arms to roll the wheels on my chair. I can’t even respond. I hate this.

“He is in here,” She has dark skin and lovely brown eyes. She is nice to me often, and her name is Chloe.

“Thank you, Chl-” I can feel my jaw trying to catch it before it’s too late, but it’s a fruitless effort.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” She responds anyway. She smiles warmly at her and cups my hand in hers. “I’ll have some water waiting for you when you’re done, alright?”

Again, I only nod as I roll past her and into the office.


	3. Sollux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bipolar disorder is a condition in which people go back and forth between periods of a very good or irritable mood and depression. The "mood swings" between mania and depression can be very quick.  
> ~  
> Schizophrenia is a mental disorder that makes it hard to: Tell the difference between what is real and not real; Think clearly; Have normal emotional responses; Act normally in social situations.

Worthless. Pathetic. Look at me, I’m nothing.

Nothing. No skin on my bones, I’m just a thin, willowy wisp, waiting for the day the wind will blow me away.

Worthless.

Might as well end this dreary existence right now. There is nothing to live for and it’s never been worth it to struggle through all this shit.

“Pull out the razor and just do it,” he whispers from the closet. I can see him in the mirror behind me, grey skin and four sharp horns that stick out awkwardly from his head. He looks just like me, except not. “End your pathetic existence right now and spare them all the horror of looking at your ugly face.”

I don’t know how the razors got into my hands, but they are there now, and I’m not inclined to ignore him this time.

Pulling them across my skin once, twice, now the other wrist. Once, twice. What a lovely color, but they need something else. They need another color to complete the scheme. Blue.

Bright blue, just like the sheets on my bed. That’s just down the hall.

I can make it before it’s over...

****

~

****

There is blood on my hands. I’m... I am not sure where it came from. I can’t see where it might have come from...

There are shadows dancing in the corners of my vision, cackling silently.

I can hear someone pounding on the door, it sounds like mom.

“Sollux! Sollux, baby can you hear me? Open up!” Why would she be yelling?

“Mom?”

“Sollux! Open the door!”

I am still staring at my hands, and I can’t quite figure out why they are covered in blood. Tiny beetles are crawling all over me. Blue beetles. Turning around to look at the door, I can see a faint trail leading out under the closed door. I can see a vaguely rabbit-like shape jump between my dresser and the bookshelf next to it, and a gnarled goblin grins from the darkness of my closet. He whispers to me to ‘Just end it, finish what you started’

“What did I start?” I ask him tiredly.

“What did you say, honey?” Mom yells.

I stand up, trying to move to let her in, but I am suddenly overcome with dizziness. “Mom I’m dizzy,” I tell her, but it sounds somewhat garbled.

“I understand honey. Just open the door, okay?”

“Okay,” Reaching for the knob is hard. But the sudden darkness that covers my vision freaks me out. It’s a bright black, dancing with color, like a very old color TV with a sudden excess of radiation to blur out the image. There are fairies in the colors, dark little creatures that bite at me and pull my hair.

When I can see again, I notice my long sleeves have pulled up my arms, and there are large cuts in my wrists. There are elves dancing on the windowsill to my left. There are people yelling downstairs, and I can hear someone thundering up the stairs. Mom is sobbing, and I can’t open the door.

I don’t understand what is going on, and my wrists are suddenly throbbing. My ears are throbbing. Everything is a painful throbbing beat that is clawing through my mind and it hurts it hurts so badly what is going on? What is... happening..?

****

~

****

Opening my eyes hurts. I’m in a hospital, it doesn’t take me long to figure that out.

It’s dark in here, but my head still hurts and my eyes sting. I think there are tear tracks on my cheeks, but I’m not sure where they came from.

A handful of cheeky little creatures sit in various locations around the room, and an ent glares furiously at me through the window. His gnarled teeth pulled up in a snarl, and his eyes glowing a faint orange.

The creatures scatter as a nurse come in, moving directly to my I.V. and adding something to it.

She smiles momentarily as she moves to leave the room, but her smile quickly morphs into a wicked grin as she sprouts angry black claws and torn wings. The pixie next to my pillow yanks on my hair and her giggle sounds like shattered glass.

Another nurse comes in, his dark skin crawling with ants as he holds up a clipboard. “You had an episode, Sollux.” He says. His voice is far away, and echos as though through liquid. “Your bipolar is getting out of hand. This time you nearly killed yourself and needed quite a bit of transplant blood.”

“Blood, blood blood, blood,” the creatures sing around the room, slinking through the dark corners and blinking their beady little eyes at me.

“Sollux?” He asks.

“I’m sorry, they distracted me,” I say quietly.

“Who distracted you?” He looks curious, but I can see the glint of malice behind his eyes.

“Them,” I swing my arm in a circle to indicate the entire room. There are hundreds of them, peeking at me from hidden locations around the room.

He looks around for a moment, and turns back to me.  “I don’t see anything. Get some rest, Sollux. You’re going to need a few days to heal.”

“You can’t keep me here. YOU CAN’T MAKE ME!” I don’t like it here, there are too many of them. They thrive in hospitals. All that death and despair, it’s not right. I don’t like it.

“Blood blood, blood, blood, blood blood blood, blooD!” The creatures sing, their millions of tiny little voices filling my brain and drowning everything out. I try to fight but the doctors come and restrain me.

“YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND! THERE ARE TOO MANY OF THEM!” I want to scream at them and make them go away. They have never let me alone and they don’t mean too.

A reptilian raccoon-like creature skittered across the ceiling and sneers at me, her bright white fangs dripping some form of glowing blue goo. She opens her mouth to snap at me, and then it opens too wide. Her mouth expands until it fold back around, slowly consuming herself inside-out.

“LET ME GO!”

“Sollux! Calm down! Give him a sedative!”

“NO! THEY WILL ONLY COME BACK! PLEASE!”

“Done, he should be asleep pretty soon.”

“LET ME OUT!” I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like it. I don’t know how I got here but it’s time to get out. I only want to struggle until they let me out. I will be free.

“Sollux it’s okay, it’s time to sleep.”

“They come back when I sleep. Full-force. I don’t like it.”

“They can’t hurt you, alright?”

I can’t speak anymore. Whatever they gave me it’s working quickly.

**The last thing I felt was a tear slipping down my cheek as the creatures came rushing to meet me.**


	4. Karkat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Transgender is when one identifies with a gender expression that conflicts with the expected expression based off the genitalia they grew in the womb.  
> ~  
> Obsessive-compulsive disorder is an anxiety disorder in which people have unwanted and repeated thoughts, feelings, ideas, sensations (obsessions), or behaviors that make them feel driven to do something (compulsions). Often manifests as an intense need for a neat and tidy environment.

“She,”

“Her,”

“Lady,”

“Girl,”

“ _It._ ”

****

It hurts.

Every time they say that, it hurts. It’s not right, it feels completely wrong.

“Katrina” has never been my name. Not even when my mother gave it to me.

Father Clifford tells me it’s wrong, it’s bad. He tells me it’s a “Sin” to feel the way I do. But it’s been with me all my life, I can’t control it.

Uncle Daniel tells me it’s “twisted garbage” and that I only think this way because the men in our family are generally given more. Are better than the women.

Aunt Janice tells it it’s “just a phase, honey” and “you’ll get over it, don’t worry.”

Mom takes me to parties all the time and introduces me as “My little girl,” or “What a lovely lady she’s become,” and it physically aches to her her say it.

Grandma tells me “It’s what’s between your legs honey. It’s genetics.”

The kids at school throw things at me for cutting my hair and trying to flatten my chest with too-small t-shirts. When I asked to get a binder my father slapped me across the face and told me to “Cut it out, this shit ain’t funny anymore!”

It’s never been a joke to me. It’s not funny, it’s terrifying.

****

My name is Karkat Vantas, I am 16 years old, and I am a boy.

****

The only person who has ever been kind to me was my Seventh Grade Math teacher, Mrs. Grant. She would call me ‘Karkat’ and ‘He’, and would never have the class participate in gender-based activities in order to avoid confusion or conflict when it came to me. I was grateful.

But when my parents found out they filed a complaint, and eventually transferred me to another class. When I kept going to spend time with her they filed another complaint and got her fired for ‘being a negative influence’ on me. I have never seen her since.

****

My room is my place, my spotless little haven. Everything is in it’s place and nothing is dirty. I can’t stand it if it’s dirty.

Dad calls it “Freakishly tidy syndrome.”

Mom calls it “Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

I just like to have things in the right place. I will literally not be able to sit still until things are nicely organized.

In my room I can be myself. I can just be alone. I can get away from the world and not listen to the constant barrage of negativity that is this fucked up planet.

I can be Karkat, and wear jeans instead of flowery dresses and frills that mom shoves at me.

I can be a boy and play a video game instead of making daisy chains in the yard. I never much liked daisies. They are everywhere and I’m kind of sick of them at this point.

 

But every once in a while my father will decide it's time to come in here and take it all away. To shatter my privacy and yell at me for not being "Girly" enough to find a boyfriend and move on from this "Nonsense."

I actually want a girlfriend. I have never liked boys they wig me out.

I want a girl, a soft, warm girl. Looking at my father's magazines when he's out has always been much more enjoyable than googling barechested boys. I know it's kind of weird to admit that but it's true.

 

But the girls at my school all give me wicked looks. They ostrasize me, boys and girls alike, and no one wants to befrend me. I'm a freak.

I have one person who could conceivably be called an aquaintance, but we don't really talk much, and he ignores me out of a preference for solitude instead of my 'condition'.

I am all alone, and it is not right.


	5. Nepeta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clinical lycanthropy is defined as a rare psychiatric syndrome that involves a delusion that the affected person can transform into, has transformed into, or is a non-human animal.
> 
> ~  
> Homicidal and cannibalistic tendencies associated with mental damage and PTSD associated with being raped from a young age.
> 
> (Wow I think I messed this one up, :I)

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

The world is finally quiet.

It has been years of torture and pain and sorrow and hurt and beatings and blood and it’s finally quiet now.

Finally okay.

He is asleep in the Living room, unmoving in a pool of red that slowly seeps into his clothes.

I don’t really know how long he’s been there, or how long he’s going to be asleep. He has long red gashes across his face and it’s really the most lovely color. Well, the second most lovely color.

The most loveliest color is the deep forest green of the carpet he's lying on.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Oh yeah, I forgot about the clock on the wall.

It's a great clock, shaped like a cat with big bug eyes and it's never once stopped ticking for as long as I remember.

I remember it ticking when mom was still alive, when she would make me breakfast and when things were still nice around here.

I remember it tocking when dad told me she wasn't coming home. When for whatever reason she decided she would never come back.

I remember it ticking as he told me to come see him, come talk to him and I wandered over.

I remember it tocking while he touched me, looked at me, hurt me, took everything that was mine, left bruises and stickiness all over me.

For years.

Seven years.

Seven years I took it because I didn't know what was going on. I still am not sure what was happening, right now it feels like a dream.

That red really is a lovely color.

I meow as I bat at the pool on the floor, curious as the ferocious kitty I am. It's sticky, like the red that used to appear on my skin after he hit me. He never told me what it was. I wonder if it's edible. I'm going to try it.

.

.

.

What a delicious new expirience. Purrhaps I ought to try some more.

.

.

.

What a delicous meal, but I think it is time for a nap. Cats like me take lots of naps.

.

.

.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

.

.

.

Who is touching me? This is not acceptable.

I will roar with all my strenght to frighten away my attacker. They will let go, I am strong.

Why aren't they letting go?

Why are their flashing lights? Red and blue, those are not lovely colors. The red is wrong, it's orange. It's ugly. Blue is not pretty at all.

This is unacceptable.

I scream, clawing at my captives and I bite one of them. There are two. He lets go, so I can attack the other, and he screams in reply to my war cry. He makes more of the pretty red, does it taste the same?

OW.

What was that? Pain in my back, that hurts, it's not good, what is it? Claws, lash out, it will go away. He poked you, how dare he?

How dare... How... He...

Dare...

.

.

.

Where am I?

Where is the clock?

It's not here.

LET ME OUT. ROAR AT THE WALLS AND SCRATCH AT THE DOOR.

I WANT MORE RED.

I WANT MY CLOCK.

.

.

.

I do not like my cage...


	6. Kanaya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somatosensory Disorder is the state of existing with an impaired or dysfunctional sensory system, or a complete inability to touch or feel on a physical level.  
> ~  
> Anxiety is an unpleasant state of inner turmoil, often accompanied by nervous behavior, such as pacing back and forth, somatic complaints and rumination.  
> ~  
> Nightmare disorder, also known as 'dream anxiety disorder', is a sleep disorder characterized by frequent nightmares. The nightmares, which often portray the individual in a situation that jeopardizes their life or personal safety. Though such nightmares occur within many people, those with nightmare disorder experience them with a greater frequency.

Another nightmare.

Another nightmare, where the hands are stained black and they glisten with blood from who knows where. They reach out and they touch me, they grab at my skin and they scream my name as if they need me but they never explain. They never say anything other than mindless noise and gurgles that poison my every waking thought and ruin any attempt at sleep.

I haven’t had a good night’s rest since birth.

 

I can feel them in my sleep, I can feel them pull my skin open and tug at my clothing.

But as soon as I open my eyes I cannot feel a thing.

There are nurses, doctors, my parents in the corner of the room. There are needles in my skin and a nurse is gently pulling on my arm. Or perhaps she is yanking, I have never been able to tell.

 

My name is Kanaya Maryam and I cannot feel a thing.

I have what is called a somatosensory disorder, in which I cannot feel a thing. I cannot feel it if my mother brushes her hand through my hair or if my father slaps me across the face. No nerve endings are attached and no signal is sent to the brain aside from my eyes which tell the story on their own.

I do not know what it is like to feel another’s hand in mine, lips on my own. I have never experienced pain aside from that within my head, and being cut off from the world as I am is one of the scariest possible things.

Since birth I have been living in a constant state of heightened anxiety and panic due to the lack of sensory input. I am unaware of the cause but it is quite likely the single most terrifying thing a human could experience. I have been living with it for seventeen years, I know nothing else, and yet I am constantly worrying.

I cannot sense the ground beneath my feet, it took me until the age of nine to learn to walk. I can barely keep any sense of balance as I walk, and I have a complete lack of taste as well. There is no way I can tell the difference in foods unless I look at it. I can hear, I can see, I can sometimes smell things. But if you laid a hand on my shoulder I would be completely unaware of your presence.

If someone shoved a knife in my back I wouldn't know until I was already on the floor.

This is part of why I am so paranoid, because I am uniquely unable to tell if there is any danger.

 

I cannot go to school. I desperately wish I could but there would be no way I could function in such an environment. I have heard horror stories though, and endless tales of bullying and massive amounts of homework, loud noises and constant bustling through the hall.

You can't get through the crowds without touching everyone around you.

How would I function if I couldn't feel them even while brushing past them? How could I hope to get anywhere if I cannot even feel them passing me. How could I go to school when I still struggle to walk upright while walking across my own bedroom at home?

And because I have never been to school, I have rarely been outside, and i have never gone unattended by my parents... I have never had my own friend, a real friend.

 

My family lives in a very quiet neighborhood, and there is no one my age in the area, which terrifies me on a daily basis because I will sit in my room for hours on end and hear absolutely nothing. I will eventually become accustomed to the smell in my room and I lose that input, and if I even blink I suddenly lose all input and I'm cut off from everything, or I will doze off and awake at the slightest sound, jolted back to reality.

There is no greater terror than a sudden return to a reality you didn’t remember existed.

Sometimes I wish I could just curl up in a ball, suspended in water, and just completely drift away. Completely lose myself, what little I have, just for a moment, before I die.


	7. Terezi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anopsia is the state of being blind; an inability to see.  
> ~  
> Synesthesia is a neurological condition in which stimulation of one sensory or cognitive pathway leads to automatic, involuntary experiences in a second sensory or cognitive pathway.

Red.

I remember what it looks like, I remember the brightness and the cool anger boiling under the visual stimulus. I remember the quiet frustration I would feel when attempting to explain it.

And now I cannot see it anymore. I can relate, I can understand, but I can no longer see my favorite color.

“Red,” The word, it’s like sandpaper and strawberries. I can feel them on my tongue, rough and sweet.

“Green” is powder, like chalk or flour. It tastes like Salt and Grass.

“Orange” tastes like something far too sweet for comfort, fur on my tongue as someone says the word.

“Mercy” tastes like fish, vaguely like fish, like catfish and has an aftertaste like broccoli.

Words are no longer just words. Words are sensations, tastes and feelings on my skin and tongue. When another touches me I see their intentions in colors, a simple brush is a pale baby blue and when someone grips my arms it’s an angry golden orange.

 

I don’t remember exactly when I came to terms with this new “Condition.” I imagine it took me a few years.

I lost my sight at eleven years old, an unfortunate accident involving a chemical leak at my school. I had hidden under the desks but had been far too close to the rupture in the pipes. It took me a long time to get over the utter terror that was a loss of sight. To have to re-work my level of comfort with the synesthesia to adjust for lack of sight took much longer.

 

I am now nineteen years of age, and I cannot live on my own.

 

My best friend is two years younger than me, and he has to help me get around often. I will call him when I need to leave my place. I can function without him, but not very well. He doesn’t mind, as long as he’s in a positive mood. He usually is, though most wouldn’t know it.

With him I’m comfortable, I feel safe when he holds my hand and walks me across the street. The honking cars bring a soft chill of water flowing down my spine, like in the shower instead of the agonizing ooze of something painfully hot like they usually do. He is safe, warm, and smells of honey and ozone.

 

I have to have to trust the waiters at a restaurant to tell me the correct amount. I have to use a card because I can’t tell the difference between any two given bills. I can’t cook, I can barely heat things up correctly because the microwave oven at my place is still new, I haven’t memorized the buttons yet. On occasion I still over or under heat things.

 

Too many times have I nearly gotten run over by a bike or car, trying to see if the chirping walk signs are enough to help me. I dislike them, they bring a strange tingle to my lower back that is never pleasant.

 

I do not like this. It is hard to get used to. I want to see.

I miss color, I miss reading without braille, I miss watching out the window when someone drives me somewhere. I miss watching where I am going, and I miss being able to handle cash or checks. I miss everything.

 

I wish sounds would just be sounds, not sensations. I wish words were just sensations on my tongue instead of flashes of color, it’s confusing and frustrating, and I want it to stop.


	8. Vriska

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anorexia is a pathological fear of eating in order to avoid weight gain.  
> ~  
> Bulimia is an illness in which a person binges on food or has regular episodes of overeating and feels a loss of control. The person then uses different methods -- such as vomiting or abusing laxatives -- to prevent weight gain.  
> ~  
> An Amputee is a person with an arm or another limb cut off.  
> ~  
> Mythomania - an excessive or abnormal propensity for lying and exaggeration.

I don’t remember which name I gave them when they found me. I’m not entirely sure what state they even found me in, or why they even found me in the first place. It wasn’t like there was anyone around when whatever happened happened. And I never called 9-1-1 myself.

Why am I here? In the hospital? I don’t remember getting hurt.

  
  


A nurse walks in, his hair is dark and he has these ridiculously dorky glasses. “Hey, Charlotte. How you doing?” He asks, grinning at me.

He’s cute, in an obviously-ate-one-too-many-sweets-at-grandmas-every-weekend sort of way, and he has rather adorably large front teeth.

And Charlotte isn’t my real name, simply one of many, but I’m not really in the mood to correct him just yet. They must have found only one of my fake IDs, and I’m suddenly grateful I forgot to bring the rest of them. It’s better they think I’m someone I’m not so this doesn’t get back around to my evil witch of a mother. People are scared of me, though I don’t like it, for good reason. But I am nothing compared to her.

“Hey, you okay?” He asks and I realize I never answered his first question.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I answer, my tongue feels like lead and his slightly worried expression eases. I want to smile back at him, but I don’t think I have that much energy right now. It was difficult enough to open my mouth to form three little words and I hadn’t realized how much it would drain me. Better save my energy for something important.

“Do you think you’re about ready to eat?” he asks and I consider the question for a moment before deciding that I really am not.

“Mmm,” I manage to mumble, which isn’t very informative but it’s the best I can do.

“Alright then. I’ll be back in a bit, don’t worry.” He says and wanders out the door and I watch him go. I kinda wish he’d stayed.

  
  
  


I woke up some time later, and no one is in the room. But it looks like the friendly nurse left a plate of highly unappetizing slop on a platter that looks too sterile to eat off of. And I don’t want any of it anyway. I’m too fat as I am. It’s disgusting. I’m disgusting.

Last time I weighed myself I weighed easily 108 lbs.

I’m fat. Disgusting filth.

Mom is right.

But that jell-O looks really tempting right now, maybe I can indulge myself, just a few bites. It’s not very many calories.

I try to reach out to the tray on my left, but something is wrong. My left arm won’t move. I never noticed any pain in it before, I’m not sure why it’s not. Maybe the blanket is holding it down? I look down to make sure, just a second to check.

It doesn’t register at first, exactly what I’m looking at. There are a lot of bandages and there is some red seeping through them, and it looks almost like a normally bandaged shoulder. Or at least as bandages go it looks normal. But something about the shape and size is all wrong.

I had no idea I could scream so loud.

  
  
  


“Tell me about your parents,” He had asked me, his big blue eyes full of curiosity as he sat near my bed and watched me sit on the bed and do nothing. I hadn’t been allowed to leave the room since they found out I had been purging. I’m not entirely sure how, but I suppose they would have figured it out.

I didn’t much like the feeding tube sticking up into my nose, it was vaguely itchy and on occasion got in the way when I tried to talk.

“My dad is a mechanic,” I said the first thing that came to mind. There isn’t much to tell about them. Nothing at all in fact to tell about my father. I have never met him and don’t plan on looking for him. “he works at this little shop two towns over. I forget what it’s called but it’s pretty small and the guys there are always nice to me.” I have no idea what my father did for a living.

Lying has always come naturally. Since I started in pre-school, lying to my mother about stealing a cookie, or about fighting with Aranea. It’s always seemed more natural to me than telling the truth ever did, and it’s almost therapeutic to spin a grand tale as I go and let it come to me.

“That sounds nice. What about your mother?”

“She’s a religious geek, but she’s really nice.” Mom hasn’t attended church once since she moved left her parent’s place. “She works night shifts sometimes in a restaurant downtown; and during the day she works as a receptionist in one of those big buildings in the area.” My mother hasn’t worked a day in her life either. At least not that I am aware of. All I know is she got pregnant and got kicked out at 17 with Aranea, kept the baby against her friends and parents council, and bummed around with her boyfriend until she got pregnant again and he left. I don’t even know if Aranea and I share a father.

“Got any siblings?”

“One, she’s four years older than me and goes to college at some Ivy League place. She’s gonna be a historian and likely wants a position as a professor so she can lecture all she wants at people who have to listen to her.” I haven’t heard from her since she disappeared ten years ago. I remember her slipping over to my bed in the middle of the night, hugging me and kissing me on the forehead, and promising to come back for me when I’m 16.

She’s nearly two years late, and the police still don’t know she’s missing.

“What’s her name?” He asks. He totally believes every word I say, and why wouldn’t he? He’s got no reason to think I’m an awful person, that I’m lying to him; and I don’t think I want him to.

“Aranea.” At least that’s true. “She was named after our great aunt.” That’s not true. “Or, one of them at least. The other actually lives with us!” Neither is that. I don’t think I even have any great aunts.

“Or! What does she do? Or, is she retired or something?” He looks totally interested, fascinated with the life of a complete stranger sitting starving in front of him.

“She . . . I think she used to make hats. And purses, handbags and stuff.” It took a moment to come up with that one. I don’t even know where I’m getting all of this. I never know where the lies come from, they just pour out.

“That’s fascinating! I can’t picture anyone sitting around making a hat though! How does that even work?”

“I have no idea, I’ll have to ask her.” I’ll never ever ask. I don’t care.

  
  
  


It took nearly seven weeks in the hospital before I finally managed to get out the front door. They had heartily discouraged me, and insisted on calling my mother. Thankfully, the ID for Charlotte “Charly” Webber told them I was nearing 24 instead of my actual nearly 18 years of age, which meant that no matter how much they argued I was an adult and responsible for myself.

It was still a shock, to me. To look down and realize I was missing an entire arm. I kinda think it would be cool to have a robotic one someday. A clunky but functional metal one, that could actually move when I want it to! Maybe pick things up!

I was suddenly vaguely disappointed it was my whole arm. If it had just been my hand I would have wanted a hook.

I wasn’t too far gone that I couldn’t walk on my own, but it was still a problem trying to stay upright when my entire head ached with a dull throb, and my vision nearly blacked out with some dark static-like effect every few minutes.

  
  
  


Eventually I made it home, and stood in front of the door. I briefly contemplated just turning around and leaving, I did not feel like entering that rotting old shack that mom had been living in for a good 20-odd years and seeing her again, but there was nowhere else I could go.

I could go back to the hospital, but it was a hospital. That place stank of death even worse than here. And I didn’t feel like looking John in the eyes and lying to him anymore. It was sometimes hard to keep track of what I told to certain people, and being distracted by his blue blues was making it harder than usual.

I flatly refuse to sleep on or under a park bench. I’m young enough that rapists won’t care about how ugly I am and serial killers won’t expect me to put up much of a fight. I’m an easy target. The streets is a no.

I have no friends at school. None. No one wants to talk to the crazy spider bitch who teases and taunts everyone, including and especially the ones who try to be friendly with her.

No friends means no one else to stay with. And I’ve never had a problem with that until now. It would have been nice to have an alternative.

So I resign myself and knock on the door, suddenly hoping to God that she’s not there.

But of course she is. “Who the fuck is it and what do you want?” She demands, her cracking voice sour from lack of sleep and I can already tell she’s just slightly intoxicated. Who knows where she got the money to buy drugs/alcohol but she did. Usually I get it for her, and with a fake ID I buy her beer. I don’t drink it as often as she does.

“Mom? It’s Vriska.”

“WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN?” She roars, and the door is slammed open so hard I can feel my hair blow back and I’m suddenly really dizzy again.

“I got sick,” I started to explain to her. “They kept me at the hospital for a really long time. There wasn’t any way to get away until now!”

“You left me all alone! You left me without food for weeks, I had to go out and get it myself!” She didn’t quite yell at me, but it certainly wasn’t a civil tone, either. She pointed into the building and glared at me, clear instructions to get inside.

I don’t want to.

“I’m so sorry mom, I just-”

“No excuses! Get your fat ass inside you ugly, ungrateful little shit and don’t dawdle! You are late enough as-is! I thought you were going to leave me to rot like your good-for-nothing sister did. But you were always the smarter one, weren’t you. You know better than to leave your mother, the one who has kept a roof over your head your whole life and taught you how to feed yourself.

“Now get inside, fat bitch.”

She says it with all the love and warmth she would use when talking to a pile of shit, maybe even less. I know it’s abuse, Health class in Freshman year taught me that much. But I never ever brought it up. I didn’t tell any of my teachers before I dropped out. I just stopped going to school. Because she told me I was ugly and no one would want to be my friend. Told me that I might as well just stay with her all day and go steal groceries when most kids would be in class.

I don’t want to go inside. “No, mom.”

“What?”

“No.”

In all the years I have been alive, I have never said no to my mother. Not even once. I have always, faithfully done every single stupid thing she odered of me.

She looked me straight in the eye, her gaze cold and terrifying, and pointed into the run-down little disease-factory that I had called home. “Get inside. Right. The fuck. Now.”

“Yes, mother,” I whispered in terror as I scurried into the room. My voice broke on the second word.

  
  
  


Three hours later, after a thorough beating, two screaming matches, and a direct attack to my still-aching shoulder where my arm used to be, mom was asleep and I sat just inside the door as I waited for sleep myself.

But no matter how hard I tried, It would not. There was no sleep for me that night.

So I got up, and as quietly as I could I left the building, and took a walk up to my rusty old bridge.

  
  
  


It was a silent, abandoned old structure, falling to pieces and covered in red rust from years left unprotected from the elements and unused in the meantime. It had once been called “Lucky pass” bridge. It was just part of a walkway through the woods leading to an amusement park which had been shut down only a couple years before. On rare occasions did I hear of anyone else in the area, but it was said to be haunted by evil beings and crawling with spiders.

They weren’t half-wrong.

If I look down, only about thirty feet, I can see a large amount of dark stains on the rusted metal that wasn’t there before. It may have come from whatever injury took my arm. It makes me weak in the knees to think about it.

I came here every night that I got anything to eat, and I purged. This was the spot that I hid from mother where I would come and dump everything that she had graciously taught me to provide for myself and her. I didn’t deserve the food she gave me.

I don’t deserve anything.

I’m a whiny, selfish, fat and unworthy bitch and I don’t deserve to be alive.

Stepping up onto the edge of the bridge it the easy part. I’d done it many times before and had looked down at the ground that was covered in metal scraps and unsavory bits of rust. It never seemed to change, this little sea of ruin.

I’d always wanted to see the ocean, but this would have to do.

Standing on the edge feels unreal, unstable in a way I’ve never felt before. I know I deserve to be dead. I know no one needs me.

But I’m still not sure if I’m going to jump just yet.


	9. Equius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claustrophobia is an anxiety disorder in which the sufferer has an irrational fear of having no escape or being closed-in. It frequently results in a panic attack and can be triggered by certain stimuli or situations, such as being in a crowded elevator, a small room without any windows, or being in an airplane.  
> ~  
> Analgesia is an absence of a normal sense of pain.

Everything hurts in the absence of pain.

 

It’s strange, to me at least, the concept of pain. I’ve never actually felt much when I fall flat on my face as a toddler or when I scraped up my knee in second grade. Sure, it was uncomfortable, but it never really hurt.

At least, as far as I understand the concept of hurt. I’m still not certain that I ever truly will.

But I can feel the throb as my hand bleeds, the skin over my knuckles suddenly blossoming in strange sensations as I try to gently pull it free of the sheetrock.

It’s not often that I let slip my composure in the company of another but there are some that have an uncanny knack for pushing my buttons. Punching the wall may not be the healthiest stress reduction therapy in the world but it’s something to do that is not harming another living being so I will take what little relief I can get.

This time I did it in the dining hall. I full view of everyone there.

It was not really my fault, I did try to leave the situation be and flee, but he had called after me an expletive and an insult that would not be tolerated. He had insulted Her, and that is not acceptable.

No one is allowed to insult Her. She is far too precious.

Even if She has trouble remembering my name some days, and has always insisted that She is not human, though I have known Her for nearly two and a half years now and She most definitely is. She is the most sacred thing in this horrid place.

There is something about Her that makes everything seem just a little less frustrating. And She is the most adept at calming me when I begin to ‘Freak out’.

And right now may just be one of those times, because the nurses suddenly surrounding me and coaxing my hand from the rubble are too close. They are far too close and I suddenly can’t breathe and they are too close too close tOO CLOSE! THEY ARE TOO CLOSE MAKE THEM GET AWAY FROM ME!

 

And suddenly there is a hand on my elbow. A tiny, warm clammy little hand with nails that may be a bit too long, but it’s soft and pleasant against my skin and I know instantly who it is and I can breathe again. She can make me breathe again.

“I think he needs to get it out on his own,” her tiny little lilting voice is so soothing to my ears I nearly don’t realize the nurses have backed up for a few moments, before I continue to dislodge my hand on my own.

It resists, something pulls from the wrong direction, and I am tempted to mutter a few choice expletives myself. But I am clear in moments, my hand pulling away covered in blood and bits of the wall. I think there may be some splinters, but I can’t tell. I just want to wash it all away and go hide in my room.

Two of the nurses come back, slowly, and offer to help me patch it up, and they lead me from the room. She pads along behind us, and just the sound of Her footsteps following is enough to keep me calm.

They lead me into the spacious infirmary, with a tall ceiling easily four feet taller than my proud 6’3”, which I have never been more grateful for. They set me down on a cot near the window and crack it open a bit.

She sits just across from me as they work on my hand, and watches them with mild interest. One of them hands her a ribbon from his pocket and she She squeals with delight before laying on her back on the cot and proceeding to toss it around with her hands and feet.

It is interesting enough that I don’t have to watch them sew up my hand and bandage it up.

When they walk away, she pauses and gets up, comes over to me, and very, very gently presses a kiss to my bandaged hand. And then crawls up onto my cot next to me and hugs me around the waist.

She doesn’t talk much, only as much as is absolutely necessary. She will avoid verbal communication like the plague and refuses to hold up an actual conversation. But she is a wonderful listener, and will sit with me as I need her to.

I cannot touch her casually, I cannot touch anyone casually. Though I wish desperately that it were not the case I usually end up hurting someone with the slightest touch. But I am learning. Since I came here she was a constant. But I’ve seen her calm down over the years as well as I, and it’s a nice mutually calming effect we seem to share.

I try my hardest to very softly run my fingers over her scalp, gently petting her as one would pet a feline, and she hums in satisfaction, her own version of a purr. She has always insisted that she was, a feline. A mighty huntress, a ferocious beast with an insatiable appetite.

She makes the walls fall away, the crippling Claustrophobia dissipate. She makes me try oh so hard not to hurt her, to treat her with utmost delicacy.

It makes my empty insides ache when I think I may ever be without her. The fear makes my chest feel strung tight.

That is the most I think I will ever know of pain.


	10. Gamzee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Chemical Dependency is an addiction to a mood- or mind-altering drug, such as alcohol or cocaine.

I’m not exactly motherfucking sure what is happening, but I AM motherfucking certain that whatever it is, it’s pretty motherfucking amazing.  
I think I caught a glimpse of the Messiahs.  
They only comes to me when I partake of the motherfucking elixir, my homie of a big brother doesn’t approve but I know what I’m doing.  
Oh, but this shit feels pretty fuckin amazing.  
There are gorgeous babes all around the room, boys and girls and whoever else might happen to be oh so beautiful. I can motherfucking feel the beginnings of the high behind my motherfucking eyes, and these beautiful people are beginning to feel like the most amazing motherfucking thing I have ever experienced. Hands are everywhere, motherfuckers is laughing and bitchtits music is playing nearby, people is kissing each other, people is kissing me.  
It feels like sleep and sex, the two best things in the whole, wide world, every time someone’s skin brushes against mine. Miraculous.  
Somebody hands me a cup of something, I’m pretty fuckin sure it’s lemonade, and it feels like liquid gold sliding down my throat.  
When I partake of the elixir, all my worries flow down the drain and I can finally relax.

~

Something is moving.  
Motherfuck?  
My motherfucking eyes don’t want to open. But I can hear someone is saying something and the motherfuckers is touching me. I can’t hear the music anymore, where the magic at?  
* **Slap** *  
Mother _FUCKIN OW_.  
My eyes slip open of their own motherfucking whimsy and I catches a glimpse of my big brother. He looks panicked and I can’t motherfuckin help the giggle that falls from my lips. The room is still full of people, sleeping peacefully. Someone painted on the wall in lots of colors. A fuckin miracle.  
* **Slap** *  
“Motherfuck?” Kurloz is moving his hands real fast at me and my eyes is too fuckin fucked up to know what he’s tryin’ ta say. “Sorry bro, can’t read ya.”  
He rolls his eyes and I see his shoulders slump. _Come on._ He tries again, signing slowly. _The Police been called. They are on their way._ His hands move real weird but somehow the words pop into my brain anyway.  
“Motherfuck.” I say again, and this time I got up. Slowly, with a lotta effort. “Will these motehrfuckers be okay?” I ask.  
_I assume so. Though I can’t get them all out before the cops come. I can hear the sirens already, let’s move._  
I can’t motherfuckin hear the sirens but I ain’t never had reason to doubt big brother, so I pulls my pants up and make for the closest door.  
*Clap* I turn around to look at Kurloz. _That’s the bathroom. This way._  
“My bad.” I turn around and follow him, stepping over bodies and cups as I go. Everyone looks so motherfucking peaceful, I hate to leave.  
As I reach for the handle on the back door I feel the strangest motherfuckin urge to turn around, and when I do, there is a wall just appeared behind me where it wasn’t there afore. Sprawled across the ugly as fuck wallpaper looks like blood but it’s too purple to be real.  
**H O N K :o)**  
It’s drippin down the walls, I can’t motherfuckin move, it drips so much the wallpaper begins to melt with it, sliding down the wall to reveal blackness. I move to turn around and there ain’t no door no more, just more black, more and more nothing.  
Big brother grabs me. But as I turn to look at him he don’t look like himself, his face is painted like mine but there’s blood on his face. And his eyes is yellow.  
_It’s all your fault._ His hands don’t move but I know it’s what he said, I don’t want to look but I can’t look away from the black thread punched through his lips. It looks motherfuckin painful, blood dripping down his chin and big ol’ crocodile tears in his eyes, but he ain’t got no expression on his face.  
I turn to run and I sees the party again, everyone is still on the ground, but this time they’re covered in blood. The walls is painted in it, their clothes soaked, knives and forks is haphazardly strewn on the ground and in chests, limbs. It’s grotesque and motherfuckin horrifyin.  
**H O N K**  
It’s written on the walls everywhere, like an angry goose came in and threw its words at the walls, only to watch them be immortalized in dripping goo.  
**H O N K**  
_It’s your fault. It’s all your fault._ Big brother is standing behind me, his bloody face still stone cold, and I can feel the blackness creeping along the floor. It’s lookin to eat us up and there ain’t no way to stop it.  
**H O N K**  
I can’t motherfuckin breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this took so motherfucking long friends.  
> Excuse the terrible language and nonsensical bullshit, it was an intentional. It's designed to be a complicated mixture of Gamzee's already whimsical conversational narrative, on top of intoxication on top of some mixture of whatever fun language alterations I could throw in to make it understandable but just barely. It's 2:30 AM and I'm hoping it doesn't take me another two years to write Eridan's piece.  
> Also check out the short I wrote earlier today from Rose's POV if you're in it for pain. <3


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